Some Nights
by writable
Summary: A love story set amidst the American Civil War. Told in a series of vignettes.
1. Chapter 1

**SETUP: This story takes place in the U.S. during the Civil War (and, needless to say, is therefore rather AU). It was inspired by Fun.'s music video for its single, "Some Nights" (hence the title), though it really has little to do with the song/music video other than the setting. It will be told in a series of out-of-order vignettes which I will order as soon as I'm done with the story in its entirety. **

**I've never done a story like this, but hope to be able to churn it out while the inspiration's still hot. I hope that you enjoy it, and I would love if you'd leave a review!**

* * *

By the time the sun begins to cast long shadows, he is gone. There's a musket slung over his shoulder and his fingertips burn from the tears he's wiped off his cheeks. Her howl of anguish had been enough of a reply; so he'd pressed the mask back into place and set out for the battlefield.

The last glimpse he catches of her is as beautiful as the first. Her tears make her alabaster skin glisten against the dusk. He has never wanted to kiss her as much as he does now, never wanted to run his fingers through her wild mane of curls. But then he sees the horror in her eyes, and must stifle the urge to retch. She is his no longer. Perhaps she never was.

And yet, she cries.

He will never understand her.


	2. Chapter 2

Her thumb is spotted with blood from the needle she's been trying to thread for the past half hour.

She sighs, knowing that it is an impossible task. Her eyes keep wandering to the host of things he's left behind: a pair of trousers neatly folded upon the oversized wicker chair beside her - a humble army of logs stacked by the fireplace - the music box on the mantlepiece...

The memory of his face shatters her reverie, and the needle buries into her flesh once again.

She sets the thread aside, and leans into her chair. It was the right decision, the only decision. There could be no future for the two of them, she is certain. But then a stray kiss and lingering touch invade her mind, and her certainty fades to something as dark as the night sky.


	3. Chapter 3

She was sixteen when her father died. His doctors had called it consumption and advised her to bid her farewells, so she'd knelt beside his bed with her hands clasped together in prayer and tears stinging her eyes. Gustave had given her a weak smile and a tender caress to the cheek while she placed a loving kiss into the center of his palm.

He'd told her many things that night. The first had been that he was sorry for leaving her. The second had been that she'd grown into a beautiful woman just like her mother. Those words in particular had caused her to stiffen - how after all these years, he could speak so kindly of the woman who had abandoned them both before her baby had even been given a name, the girl would never know. Perhaps one day she would find within herself the capacity to forgive, but instead she clutched her father's hand even closer to her heart.

The last thing had been that he'd found her a suitor, a decent man who could give her a comfortable life. He promised that she would grow to love him, that he would give her everything her dead father could not. Gustave had sputtered into his handkerchief then, a mixture of guilt and blood staining the square of terrycloth. The girl had moved to wipe away the sheen of sweat from her father's forehead, but felt his hand fall limp against hers instead.


	4. Chapter 4

He sweats beneath the porcelain mask. His footman assures him that there is nothing to worry about, and yet his heart pounds within his breast all the same. The carriage is too slow and the sun is too hot and the laces on his shoes are far too tight - and yet it's his throat that feels constricted, his lungs that feel as though they can hold no air.

His first step onto the meager Daae estate is his only. The girl emerges from the modest house with an equally modest bundle of belongings. She waves the help of his footman away, and in the tiny voice of a child, protests against inanities. She urges him to stop. There is nothing left for her here, and she sees no reason in staying for longer than necessary.

The man is taken aback, albeit relieved, for the girl's disdain for pleasantries. The idea of tea in a dead man's house had not much been appealing, as it were. He shifts his gaze from the tiny house to the figure that steadily approaches him.

The fury of chocolate curls that frame her kind face becomes increasingly visible. She is beautiful, extraordinarily so, and suddenly he realizes that he could not take another step forward even if he wanted to. He is bewitched, intoxicated, petrified by the perfection that now stands before him. She studies the floor intently, hiding her gaze behind a forest of lashes.

He wonders if she is afraid of him.

She looks up abruptly and gestures to the carriage.

_Of course, of course, she has already mentioned that she does not wish to stay._

He extends his hand to help her inside, and to his surprise, she accepts it.

* * *

As they ride, her resolve breaks. Tears begin to fall. He has no idea how to stop them.


	5. Chapter 5

_Daroga,_

_I hope that this note finds you in good health. It has been some time since I've returned from the Daae estate, and I've begun to regret my fulfillment of the man's dying wish. _

_The girl speaks so rarely, I often forget she is here. A _ghost_, Daroga. How fitting that such a creature should become my wife! She sits as still as a statue during mealtimes and leaves her plates untouched. I have insisted that she eat on many an occasion, a gesture to which she only nods before resuming her languor. She has grown weak and pale... I worry. _

_She refuses my help, and there is only so much Cora can do for her. She minds her as much as the girl will allow, but when she retreats to her bedroom, there's little to do but linger in the halls and listen to her cries. I have never been one to ask favors, Daroga, you know this more than anyone, but I find myself at quite a loss... _

_I hope to see you soon. _


	6. Chapter 6

The midwife gasps and Madeleine is certain that her baby is dead.

She peers between her tented legs with apprehension - there is no mistaking the look of horror on Simonette's face. It is dead. Her baby is dead. Charles' face flashes through her mind, and her eyes instantly blur with tears. How she has failed him! How she had failed her poor, dead husband!

She scrambles to prop herself up on her aching, sweating limbs, overcome by the urge to lay eyes on the corpse she has borne. The despair hits her first, followed promptly by the odor of blood. Her heart pounds and it echoes in her ears like a bell's funeral song.

Her eyes settle upon the bundle in the Simonette's arms. Now it is she that gasps. It has never occurred to Madeleine that her baby boy might still be alive.


	7. Chapter 7

_My dear friend,_

_I am delighted to hear from you! It means that you have kept safe and that is more than enough good news for an old man like me. However, I find myself in the unsavory position of being unable to fulfill your request. Reza is expected to visit within the next few weeks, you see, and I could not bear to miss him. I can only assume that you'll accept my advice in place of my person: _

_Perhaps you should begin to address the girl by her given name. I imagine that the poor thing has one, even though you choose to vehemently ignore it. And please, Erik, remember that she is grieving. By now, it has only been a few weeks since the death of her father - her wound will heal only with time. You must be patient. _

_But you must also fill that time with things that she enjoys. A pastime, perhaps? Or an old friend? Something familiar will undoubtedly lift her mood. _

_Be gentle with her, Erik. You of all people should know what she is going through. _

Nadir Khan

* * *

She starts by singing scales.

They're absolutely atrocious to an untrained ear, but Erik's is hardly such a thing. At first, the sound echoes sharply against his skull. He winces. But then he is kissed by its underlying sweetness. It wraps itself around his throat, traces the hard lines of his jaw with its fingers. He licks his misshapen lips and lets out a sigh of delight.

For the first time, her eyes are bright. Her father is somehow with her again, in the spirit, in the voice of this great masked man. He corrects her posture, demonstrates proper breathing, hums a folk song from her childhood for her to recreate, and the more she looks at him, speaks to him, listens to him, the less fearsome a thing he is to behold.

_How strange to know that a pair of green eyes hides behind that mask!_


	8. Chapter 8

_If I promise to be good, will you let me come?_

_If I promise to be good, will you let me come?_

_If I promise to be good, will you let me come?_

Madeleine silences the young boy, and bestows upon him her usual refusal. It is too _dangerous_, at first, but when he grows old enough to see through her empty words, he is harder to convince. It will not interest him anyway or the dishes need washing or Madame Perrault has requested some help with her garden: these all become the new excuses to keep the boy's hunger at bay. Church is no place for the devil incarnate.


	9. Chapter 9

Cora picks the tray up with her dark, weathered hands, and sets out for the dining room. Her hips ache from standing in the kitchen all day, preparing a feast for the master of the house and his little wife. Lord help them both if the girl refuses her supper once again - a dirty kitchen is one matter; a girl dead from starvation is another entirely.

Her chin juts out above the sterling tray of crusty bread and bowls of soup. If it were up to her, she'd press a bowl of broth or a slice of fruit to the girl's adamant pout before allowing her to retire to bed. She lets out a sigh. The master is too gentle a man, despite his great height and curious array of masks. For eleven years, he has been nothing but decent, and decency will not keep his wife fed.

She puts the bowls of soup down, and throws a hopeful glance at the pretty brunette before retreating to the kitchen.

To her surprise, the girl eats.

Cora watches as the silver spoon is picked up by a pale, dainty hand and brought to sallow lips. Eyes close briefly as she relishes the taste, and the spoon is lowered gently into the bowl once more. A ghost of her smile plays at Cora's lips, and if she is not mistaken, there is one on the master's face too.


	10. Chapter 10

His voice is the most exquisite thing she has ever heard.

It is different when he teaches her: like silk, like cream, like clay. She wishes to mold it with her fingertips, wrap it around her neck like a scarf, drink it in until her thirst has been quenched. But she cannot, for it paralyzes her. All she can do is obey it.

Christine. It is a simple name, a simple word, and yet she has never heard him say it. And _oh, _what she would give to hear it wrapped in that velvet voice of his! At first it was scarcely an issue, but in these last three months, she has grown frighteningly accustomed to the anonymity. She is nameless, and unnervingly so - is she still Christine if nobody seems to know?


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hi everybody! Thanks so much for reading this story so far. :) All you lurkers out there, I'd love it if you would leave a review! Like I've mentioned earlier, this story is unlike anything I have ever done, so constructive criticism or suggestions are always lovely. :) I hope you enjoy - this particular vignette is one of my favorites! **

* * *

One night, he comes home with blood on his sleeve.

She looks at him, frightened, before disappearing quickly, leaving him to slump against the oversize chair by the fireplace with a crease in his brow. He adjusts his crooked mask to hide his hurt expression and rips the left sleeve off his ivory working shirt in one fluid motion. He groans when the odor of blood fills his nose. But by the time the sound fades to a dull, angry hum, she has reemerged with a tiny jar in her right hand and a pail of water in her left, a washcloth slung over one perfect shoulder.

Already his pain is subsiding.

She kneels beside him determinedly, setting the objects down, and runs her fingers gently around the periphery of the bloody, mottled skin. The firelight catches the flush in her cheeks, and she quickly tugs her hand away, reaching instead for the neat square of cloth at her knees.

She makes him want to weep. She swipes the cloth against his wound with such tenderness, it is as though she believes him to be made of porcelain. He could almost laugh - she couldn't be further from the truth! - and yet he finds himself immobilized beneath the tips of her fingers.

The pungent salve stings his skin, but it is a small matter - he is drowning in the feeling of her flesh against his, rosy and perfect and _intoxicating._ And kind! Has he ever come across a kinder soul? His eyes begin to water, and it has little to do with the ointment.

When at last his wound is dressed, she speaks a few words to him. A bandage, if he has one, and where would it be? He finds himself unable to reply over the lump in his throat. To his relief, she shakes her head quickly and her request evaporates. Instead, she reaches for the hem of her skirts, and tears off a strip of the fabric.

She leans back to examine her handiwork. He finds something terribly charming in the pride on her full features. She glances up at him shyly as he mumbles his gratitude - a thank you to _Christine. _


	12. Chapter 12

His hands are poised before her belly, as though trying to draw out an unseen song. His fingertips tingle - how close they are to _her! _- but he restrains himself from skirting them across the taut fabric of her dress.

_From here_, he reminds her, _breathe from here, _and she trills out the aria with a vibrancy that earns her a fleeting smile.

He dismisses her kindly, and with a nod - his own form of praise that she's grown to adore - but she can't think of another place she'd rather be. So with a swish of her skirts, she collapses onto the piano stool, and fixes her gaze upon him.

From whom did he learn and why does he wear the mask and what was he like as a boy - these are the questions that spill from her lips in one unceremonious breath. Blood rushes to her cheeks immediately after she asks them, when she realizes that the unmasked part of his face has grown as pale as its porcelain sibling.

Half of her waits for an answer, while the other half fumbles around for an apology. Erik just mumbles that it's time for supper and gestures towards the door.

* * *

She finds it hard to sleep tonight. The moonlight casts eerie shadows across her quilt - sinister figures and porcelain faces. Questions race through her mind like they've got some place to get to. The memory of their terse supper elicits a frustrated exhalation. She tosses and turns in her bed, wishing for a warm body to rescue her from her solitude.

Perhaps she was wrong, to inquire after him. Her cheeks burn at the suggestion of her own impertinence. Had she been a curious fool, too far past her boundaries? She ponders this for a few moments, until the mortification evanesces and a swell of anger takes it place. He is her husband after all - _'till death do them part!_

She runs her hand over the cool sheets, and they steal away her temper. So she turns onto her other side and succumbs to the haze of sleep.

* * *

**A/N: I'd love to hear what you all thought about this one! If all goes well, I think we will find a few answers to Ms. Daae's questions in the next chapter. :) Also, if any of you have a particular prompt or idea for a vignette, or if there's a missing moment in these past twelve chapters that you're itching to see, don't hesitate to let me know! I'm always up for a challenge~ Thanks for reading! **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Oh good lord, it's been too long. Here's to a glimpse into the past~  
**

He coasts past pews towards the jewel of the church, and from then on, there is no going back.

His small hands dance across its ivory keys, procuring the most sinful lullabies under the roof of God. The young boy is masked by the veil of night and nothing else, but it is of little consequence to him - the matter of his face, a matter he has only begun to understand, is drowned by the music at his fingertips.

So this is what she has been hiding - the wretched woman who every day laments the sin she has borne! This is what she has kept from him - _lied about - _for as long as he can remember. _It is dangerous, _he recalls. _Madame Perrault needs your help. There are chores to be done. It will not interest you. _

Her final lie pierces him most. _It will not interest you - _how many times had he heard it? His chin falls to his chest when he thinks of how many times he's_ believed_ it. Anger swells within his small chest. He stares sightlessly. His lips curl into a sinister grin. His fingers move faster as he puppeteers the keys into an extraordinary crescendo-

But the sounds behind him ceases his movements. Footsteps? Shuffling? He can't make any sense of it. Terror flashes through his eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he becomes the young boy that he is, ashamed and frightened by the consequences of his impertinence. The church door swings back and forth on tampered hinges. The moonlight pins the stained glass figures to the floor. Erik is certain they're out for his blood.

But there's nobody there, and suddenly he is unsure if there ever was.

* * *

Tucked safely among the grotesque shadows cast by the stained glass windows, a figure watches. Father Mansart thumbs his rosary idly as the boy hops off the bench and slips swiftly through the door. Perhaps a visit is in order.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: It occurred to me that this is probably a pretty significant missing moment, so I thought I'd weave it back in. Hope you enjoy, and again, all you lurkers, I'd love to know what you think!  
**

_They are to be married on Sunday. The girl hasn't a white dress to her name, so the man sends his young footman out into town to fetch one. The earnest boy returns with an atrocious thing, a mess of giant capsleeves that is certain to overwhelm the girl's slight frame. His brow furrows in disdain at the sight of it, and for the first time in along while, he is rendered speechless. So he tells the boy to prepare a carriage and dispose of the creation first thing in the morning. The fabric is far undeserving of what little he's seen of the girl's delicate form._

_Perhaps a set of drapes will do it justice?_

_He shrugs on a freshly pressed coat and sets out for the porch, climbing into the horse drawn carriage the moment it arrives. To town, he commands, and with haste!, for their is much to be done and alarmingly little time to see it through._

* * *

_The shop is one he frequents purely by necessity. He has learned early on just how important appearances are in a society like his, so he tailors his suits and shines his shoes to fit the stifling aristocracy. His mask has been dismissed by his precious few neighbors as something of an accessory, a final touch to add to the mystique that he supposedly lives to exude..._

_He's caught a whiff of the gossip, and if he didn't find it so terribly depressing, he'd probably be amused._

_Snapping out of his reverie, he sets foot into the shop and scans its periphery for Mamie. To his relief, the eternally ruddy-faced woman emerges from between rolls of colored linen, stopping in her tracks at the sight of the eerie porcelain planes._

_She stutters out a few formalities. He feels a swell of inexplicable sympathy and decides to end the woman's suffering. A wedding dress, the most beautiful she has, but simple and slender and pure. The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, and if he's not mistaken, a ghost of a smile plays at the woman's pursed lips. He can see that she's grown comfortable, a wretched thought, so when she begins to form an inevitable question, he pours the purse of bills and coins onto her counter to silence her. She peers down greedily with beady eyes at the sparkling precious metals. Sunday, he tells her, and after that, there are no more questions._

* * *

Christine folds the dress with the wistful sigh, and wraps it once again in layers of wrinkled tissue. She slides the box back into place, and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, wishing _he_ was as near as his memories.


	15. Chapter 15

It is her birthday today.

Her birthday, her _birthday, _but to Erik it feels like he must prepare for his imminent death. What sorts of gifts would the woman expect, and with what sort of words to accompany them and would she kiss him on the cheek after receiving them and would he let her?

Well, of course he would let her if she wanted to kiss him.

But she wouldn't.

She is a teacher's dream but a phantom's woe. Beautiful, delicate, impossibly lovely, and therefore most unfitting for a hideous creature like himself. Only once has she ever inquired after the mask, just a few months ago, but it had been enough to remind him of what the two of them would never become.

He gives a mirthless chuckle. Nearly a year of marriage, and it is her damn _birthday_ that perplexes him! Simple, he thinks, something simple. By chance, he glances out the window, and suddenly he has found it.

* * *

She clutches the perfect rose to her breast with delight, while wrapping the black silk bow around and around her finger.

It's beautiful and so very like him and _strange_ and she loves it. When she moves to embrace him, her rosy cheek resting against his chest, he does little in return. But inside, his heart soars and his stomach flips and it all makes him very frightened.


	16. Chapter 16

_Dear friend, _

_I write to you in warning, for the fields of Kansas bleed._ _Men of the south have been pouring in, soiling the land with their wicked feet, and men of the north have been pouring in to dilute them. This land is a land of foreigners now, Erik, and the quiet life I once had has been spoiled with talk of revolution. _

_Men have been speaking of a great war for some time now. I want to believe that it is just talk, the consequence of these brutes and their guns, but something tells me that it is not so. We find ourselves on the brink of bloodshed which far surpasses anything we have ever known. Reza mentions his desire to join them on occasion, a desire which I swiftly put an end to. But he is a grown man now, you see, a stubborn American in spirit, and the reigns I once had for him have long dissolved in my fingertips._

_I hope that you and your wife are safe, and may God protect us all during these trying times. _

Nadir Khan


	17. Chapter 17

Father Mansart clears his throat, and spreads his palms out before him.

"It was _him, _my child, I am certain."

Madeleine shakes her head in reply, her short blonde curls bouncing adamantly upon her shoulders.

"That is impossible, Father," she screeches, "He has not even set _foot_ in church, he would not even know how to-"

"How does the boy speak to God, Madeleine, if he has never set foot in church?" His eyebrows rise in concern.

The young woman searches the floor nervously, before twirling her wedding band around her finger.

"Why, from _home_, Father." She thinks quickly, and wipes at the corner of her eye. "It is our only option. The world is unkind to people like him. Surely you do not wish for me to force my poor son to endure such ridicule by sending him to church!"

She expects him to heave a sigh, to welcome her slight, trembling frame into his arms, but instead Father Mansart looks past her, his eyes locking on something in the distance.

"You, boy! Step forward." He beckons the young child towards him with a single quirked finger.

The obsidian-haired child is a sight to behold, a beautiful and slender thing with a frighteningly sharp jaw and an old, tired expression. But his eyes betray his youth, expressive and curious, and he takes in the sight of the holy man with unmistakeable apprehension.

"I do not mean to scare you," Father Mansart adds quickly, sensing the child's alarm. Taking extra care to avoid staring at the flimsy cotton mask that obscures his face, he continues, "I only wish to ask you if you have been playing the organ at the church at night."

The boy looks up at his mother, his eyes wide. A look of rebellion quickly replaces his uncertainty when he senses the anger in her expression. His gaze shifts to Father Mansart.

He nods.

Madeleine lets out a sharp cry.

"Father, you mustn't listen to him. He is frightened, he does not know what he is-"

"Hush, Madeleine." A hand is raised. "Come closer, my child."

The boy takes a step forward, his expression now placid. Father Mansart places a hand on his shoulder.

"Come with me, child," he says kindly, "There is someone I would like you to meet."


	18. Chapter 18

He thinks about her sometimes, from the battlefield.

It is her hair that gets to him first, the chocolate lion's mane that always struck him as her one rebellion against her timid eyes and smooth, alabaster skin. It is on nights like these, when the rain is pounding outside of a tent that can keep water out no better than a sieve, that he wishes he was curled up near her, beneath a pair of wool blankets, her soft, warm figure pressed up against his cold, hard chest.

It is her voice that gets to him next, those flawless, soaring notes that he and only he knew how to procure from her, with his head poised dangerously near her delicate breasts, as though he is pulling the sound right out of her. He wishes that she could sing to him, to drown out the whistling bullets and the cries of men who lay dying, their twitching limbs lying feet away.

It is her shyness that gets to him last, the womanly modesty that forced a blush onto her cheeks not during their kisses, but in the moments right after their lips had pulled apart. What would he give to taste those lips once more! To cup her soft cheeks in his large hands and feel the softness of her against his scars.

He sighs.

He is alive. And for now, that is enough.


	19. Chapter 19

In 1854, a black-haired man wanders around Reservoir Park, enjoying the crisp New York air.

_Persia will never be like this_, he thinks to himself, and for the briefest of moments, he is overcome with a swell of sadness. But before the feeling can penetrate his bones, a man blows into a foghorn, announcing a demonstration. It is an elevator this time, Nadir understands, with some sort of safety device to prevent it from plummeting those within it to their deaths. Humbly, he considers himself a decently-educated man, but in that moment it seems as though he will never come to understand these strange American contraptions, nor the _khanum's _obsession with them.

But as long as he is here, he might as well look around, and record these Western technological advancements into a tiny notepad that he keeps in his breast pocket to sate the _knanum's _curiosities. Perhaps he will find something for his little boy back home, or for his darling wife.

During the next six years, his life is a blur of travel, of suitcases and steamships and plates of American food. He comes to learn that his boy has quite a taste for steamed and buttered peas, and that his wife has an inexplicable knack for the sewing machine.

He spends more time en route to Persia than he does in it, and after that, he spends more time in America than he does en route to Persia. Slowly, like a scale being tipped over to one side, he builds a new life for himself and his family. He makes the obligatory journeys on behalf of the Shah, from Persia to America, from America to Persia, from Persia to America.

One day, he doesn't go back.


End file.
